Naomi hurries off set, pretending not to feel every pair of eyes trailing her—including his.
She needs a gallon of water and a moment alone.
CHAPTER 8
NAOMI
The soul-sucking fluorescent lights in the Hollis Group office are trying to kill her.
Not quickly—nothing so merciful. Slowly. Psychologically.
Naomi blinks at her monitor, trying to remember how to form actual sentences in English. Her eyes are dry, her brain is soup, and she’s three hours into writing campaign emails for a luxury mattress brand whose entire visual identity appears to be beige sadness and aggressively heteronormative couples in flannel jammies.
Subject lines so far include:Feel the Whisper of ComfortandSink Into Stillness.
She’s sinking, all right—straight into madness.
Her cubicle is a charming little disaster, with papers stacked in semi-threatening towers and an open bag of vegan sour gummies she promised herself she wouldn’t touch scattered across the desk. One drawer is filled to the brim with plant-based snacks. A small jungle of succulents crowds the corner beside a mug that readsMostly Sweet, Sometimes Savage, a Secret Santa gift from last year that she now feels obligated to use.
She looks around at her cozy prison and wonders if it’s too early to fake a medical emergency.
It’s been a week since they got back from Hartford. Mila had gone straight from the airport to a client dinner. Naomi had gone straight to bed, face-first.
Seven days home, and she’s still thinking about Garrett Tall’s abs.
Which is...excellent.
Exactly the emotional baseline she was hoping for. Haunted by core strength.
She’s been sitting at her desk for the last hour, pretending to be a functioning adult while her brain replays a fifteen-second highlight reel of her threading a mic cord down the torso of a scowling, wannabe Viking god.
A super productive thought spiral, considering she still needs to finalize three email sequences to send to Richard by end of day.
Her phone pings with an incoming message from Mila.
My office. Bring caffeine.
Naomi sighs, grabs what’s left of her oat milk latte, and weaves through the sea of open-concept cubicles. The bullpen hums with the anxious undercurrent of creatives on a deadline—keyboards clacking and hushed conversations about brand tone.
Mila’s office is tucked in the corner. The door is propped open, sunlight filtering through the tall windows behind her. The view technically includes the CN Tower if you lean just right, but mostly it’s a panoramic sweep of Toronto’s concrete and glass jungle.
Inside, the space is exactly what you’d expect from Mila: curated, clean, lived in. There’s a blazer draped over the back of her chair, a pair of backup heels under the credenza, and a gallery of photos stuck to the wall with chic gold magnets—family, friends,and a few of Naomi and Mila at past events, champagne in hand, pretending not to be exhausted.
Naomi flops onto the nearest chair. “Tell me this is about something more interesting than mattresses.”
Mila smiles. “It’s about the Whalers gala.”
Naomi perks up. Right. The gala. Their next big event. Tall will be there, and after the last time she saw him, she’s not sure how that makes her feel.
She takes a long sip of her latte, buying time to school her face into what she hopes is a neutral expression. “Okay, hit me. Tell me how much logistical suffering I’m in for.”
Mila swivels her monitor toward her. “We’ve got about a month before we fly back to Hartford. Jim Pearce wants the gala to be bigger this year—black-tie, more press, more donors, more emphasis on the Whalers’ partnership with the Connecticut Children’s Hospital and the Whalers’ Wish Box.”
Naomi nods slowly, filing it away while trying very hard not to imagine Garrett Tall in a tux. Because that way lies madness.
Mila continues, “The hospital’s board has a hand in final approvals, so we need to keep things buttoned up. And we’re responsible for the silent auction.”
“Got it.” Naomi opens her notes app. “I’ll start sourcing prizes. Spa weekends, private dining, luxury pet grooming. The usual suspects.”
